Devlin's Luck by Patricia Bray Page B

reminded that the Chosen One was held in fear and contempt. His discussion the night before with the minstrel Stephen had told him all that he needed to know on that subject.
    “A servant directed me here,” he said.
    “And if you had worn the uniform of the Chosen One, she would have directed you to the Great Hall.”
    “Is the food there any better?”
    “No,” Captain Drakken said. “But it is expected that the Chosen One will dine in the hall. It is a matter of custom and courtesy. But I did not come to speak of customs. I came to tell you about the sword you shattered.”
    “Indeed?” he asked, interested in spite of himself.
    Captain Drakken leaned forward. “Two years ago, a smith made a dozen swords for us. Three were lost with their Chosen, and the fourth was the one you destroyed. After the ceremony I had a smith examine the eight that remained. Five of them had similar flaws.”
    There was a long moment of silence as he contemplated her words.
    “This has no sense. Why spoil some of the swords and not all?” It could have been months or years before one of the flawed swords was put to use. What was the purpose of so chancy a scheme? Could the smith have been merely incompetent? Yet an apprentice should have been able to spot the flaw.
    Captain Drakken shrugged and spread her hands wide. “I agree, it makes no sense. The smith who made the swords left the city soon after executing the commission. I have sent messengers out, but I doubt that we will find any trace of him.”
    “And how good is the smith that you had examine the swords? Can he be trusted?”
    “Master Timo has served as armorer to the castle for twenty years. He made the sword that I gave you. Two years ago he broke his arm in an accident, which is why the sword commission was given to another.”
    He had no reason to question her judgment. And Captain Drakken’s sword had been well made, which spoke for this Timo’s skill. But he could not shake the sense that there was something more going on here than a few flawed swords.
    “You should assume that all the swords are tainted, and have them melted down and reforged. And if your smith had a broken arm, no doubt there were other commissions that he had to refuse. Have your guards check every weapon they have for flaws. Ask everyone what else the traitor may have worked on, no matter how big or small, and if there is any doubt, have it forged anew,” he said, his voice firm as if he were giving orders to one of his apprentices. Even as he spoke, he knew the words were not wholly his own. It was the Chosen One who spoke, and who felt entitled to give orders to the Captain of the Guard.
    Captain Drakken gave him a measuring look, but he returned her gaze steadily.
    “Do you truly think this necessary? It will mean a great deal of work, not to mention expense to the treasury …”
    “Do it,” he said sharply. “Even if you find nothing, it will reassure the guards. You do not want to lead them into battle when they are not sure if they can trust their weapons.”
    She grimaced. “I doubt very much that the King will let us see battle anytime soon. He holds us too close to the city, safe away from the disturbances that plague the out-lands. But I will do as you say.”
    He nodded. “And if you have no objection, I would speak with this smith myself.”
    The forge was located on the northern side of the palace grounds, just inside the inner stone wall. As Devlin stepped through the narrow entranceway, he was struck at once by the fierce heat. Against the far wall the fire bed glowed. Iron rang against steel as the smith expertly hammered away at a horseshoe. At Devlin’s entrance the smith looked up but then returned his gaze to his work.
    Devlin looked around, noticing that the forge boasted not one but four anvils, of differing sizes. There were two workbenches, each of which had an assortment of hammers, tongs, chisels, punches, and other tools for working metal. Raw bars of